Thievery and Repercussions
by Aderyn Westenra
Summary: This story is a collaboration with I am Mayhem. Thievery, hatred, revenge, drunken sex, and a frustratingly elusive hand mirror. Set in the mid-16th century. Will be multi-chapter; and more humour than romance. FrUK.


The evening was growing steadily darker in the quiet streets just outside of Paris. Shadows stretched throughout the greenery, reaching their long fingers through the branches of the freely-growing trees. A bird chirped merrily somewhere in the lower canopy of leaves, its whistling voice echoing through the thickening dusk.

The waning light signalled a weary end to the working day, with only a few vague silhouettes of people still roaming the town through the tiger-like stripes of black shadow and orange light. The fading aroma of bread wafted from the windows of the local bakery, permeating the air, little more than a ghost of a scent now that the store had closed for the night. This lingering sense of presence was all the invitation the figure in the woods required.

The young man seemed to be made of shadow as he stole through the streets, making his way to the largest house in the district. It was a larger lodge in an artful style. Passers-by could easily see that only the finest artisans had been commissioned in its making, and it was often admired from afar. The figure who approached it now, however, was not there to admire.

The man crossed the heavily-wooded lawn, hiding mostly-successfully from any view available from the house's large windows. Despite his talent for secrecy, there were many instances now when he tripped into the dying sunlight, revealing his face for a brief second. A wild shock of yellow hair barely covered thick eyebrows. His bleary green eyes flickered about him, hardly registering the surrounding area. An empty rum bottle slipped from his hand and shattered against a particularly tough tree root, his fumbling grab to save it much too late. Drunk beyond belief, Britain composed what he assumed to be a fierce glare at the offending fragments of glass.

"Sh!" He harshly whispered to them, holding a finger to his lips. The former rum bottle had no reply. Britain narrowed his eyes and grumbled incoherently at the fragments of glass before leaning against a nearby tree and trying to take a few deep, calming breaths. He adjusted the black tricorn hat on his head, smoothing back the single ragged feather that adorned it. His destination was finally in sight, and despite the numbing effect of the alcohol in his blood, he was still a bit uneasy.

"Come on, you're a bloody pirate." He murmured to himself, "The most feared buccaneer to ever cross the seas. You are revered. The populace trembles when you approach! You are steadfast and immovable. You are… very, very, very drunk. Bloody hell, I'm drunk."

He made an attempt to push off from the tree and continue walking, but tripped over his own boots and fell over. Grumbling several curses in the thick accent typical of the emerging clan of seafarers called pirates, he picked himself up again and dusted off, paying close attention to his rightly infamous coattails. They were his pride. It wouldn't do to get them dirty. After taking a moment to regain his balance, he tromped around to the back door of the large house belonging to his ancient enemy, France. He fumbled with the makeshift lockpicks he always kept in his breast pocket. More often than not, he preferred to kick in or blow open any door that stood in his way, but for this task he required stealth. Luckily, even though he was relatively new to pillaging, he had picked enough locks for it to be second nature, even in the dark and with his hands trembling from the excess of rum he had downed earlier that evening. All he had to do was listen.

A few clicks, and the lock gave. Britain opened the door, entering the house with what he imagined to be a great amount of stealth and grace before closing the door quietly behind him. Once inside, he roamed the hallways with a crooked grin, procrastinating on his true purpose for the time being. Having lived in it for a good part of the eleventh century, he knew France's house almost as well as his own, and he definitely knew where France's bedroom was. But so long as there was no sign of the self-righteous bastard, Britain decided to sneak around and take a look. He stole several small and meaningless possessions whenever he found one that caught his eye. A butter knife, a brass napkin holder, a candlestick, a small potted plant; all were swept silently away. His eyes widened as they lighted upon a small silver hand mirror, gleaming like a thing on fire in the candlelight. Britain smirked as he slipped it into one of the many secret pockets in his coat, his fingertips vaguely registering the existence of an ornate engraving on the back. He was about to make his way to France's room at last when a soft sound coming from the lounge stopped him dead. Carefully, he crept along the wall and peeked in through the entryway. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a foul grimace at the sight of the young man inside.

It was Spain, dead asleep on the armchair. His snoring was what had startled Britain. Disdainfully, he walked over and stood above him, wondering why the Iberian nation was visiting France when there had been so many squabbles between the two lately. More likely than not, he had come to negotiate some matter or another. Britain took a moment to look Spain up and down, running his tongue subconsciously over his lower lip as he contemplated the tempting idea of doing something terrible to his rival. He despised the other pirate, probably even more than he despised France, but Spain wasn't the one he had come for. He pocketed a bottle of ink from the small table next to the slumbering nation, attempting to put as much contempt in the action as possible, and stormed away quietly.

Once he reached France's bedroom, Britain took a moment to look around. It was the same as he remembered; the blue-curtained bed, the lattice windows that looked out onto the vast backyard, the heavy oak bookshelf. Not without stumbling, he leaped over to the darkest corner of the room and waited. His drunkenness seemed to be giving him more energy instead of taking it away, and he waited anxiously for France, barely able to keep still as his heart beat thunderously in his chest.

It seemed like forever before the door swung open and France stepped into the room. Grinning deviously, Britain attempted to spring out of the shadows with the utmost grace, but succeeded only in tripping over himself again. Startled, France jumped back, regarding the intruder warily. Britain stood back up, regaining what was left of his dignity by straightening his hat as he strode confidently up to his rival.

"What are you doing in my house?" France asked in irritation, "Don't you drop by uninvited enough? Now you're breaking in, too?"

Britain didn't answer, save for a mocking sneer. He leaned in close to France, reaching behind him to close the bedroom door, and not a second afterwards he shoved France against it. France was wide-eyed and silent now, extremely hesitant. This wasn't like Britain. As the younger nation forced himself uncomfortably close, France pinched his own arm several times to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

"What… what are you wearing?" He asked uncertainly, looking at Britain's ratty new attire. He couldn't remember if he'd seen the coat and boots before, but the hat was new.

"It's something I'm trying now. Comes with being a pirate. Give that bloody Spaniard a run for his doubloons, so to speak." Britain replied. He slurred his words occasionally, and France could smell the sharp sting of alcohol on his breath.

"Anything else…new?" France asked, mentally hitting himself for asking such stupid questions in an attempt to hide how nervous he was.

"Aye," Britain replied, "I get to talk with this new accent, I reckon you noticed. I get to take what I want, when I want, from _whoever_ I want." He frowned, dissatisfied with the fact that France was slightly taller, and that he therefore had to look up at him when he was trying to talk _down _to him. "And that means I also get to do this."

Without any more of a warning than that, Britain pinned both of France's wrists against the door and kissed him violently. France's eyes flew open in surprise, but he soon found himself melting reluctantly into Britain's rough embrace. There had been a lot of tension between them recently, and he figured this was as good a way to relieve it as any. Gently, he unsheathed his teeth and bit softly at Britain's lower lip, grinning almost sadistically as Britain grunted and pulled away. With only a moment of hesitation, he moved them both over to the bed and threw France down onto it; throwing himself on top of France in the next instant.

"You've gone insane." France said, chuckling against Britain's lips, "I thought you hated me."

"I do hate you." Britain confirmed, slipping his tongue into France's mouth, "But I'm drunk. And I _have_ been at sea for a while. My standards are low enough to trawl the ocean floor at this point."

He moved them both backwards to the center of the bed, letting France lean back on the pillows as he dipped in to kiss his enemy's neck.

"You reek of alcohol. And not even the good kind." France commented, wrinkling his nose. Britain fixed him with a slightly bleary glare.

"This will work out so much better for both of us if you stop talking." He growled curtly. France gave him an irritated frown, but didn't reply. Britain had already stopped paying attention to France and was engrossed in the delicate task of unbuttoning his vest. Once it was off, France lifted Britain's coat off his shoulders, tossing it to the foot of the bed. Both of them kicked off their boots and tossed them haphazardly onto the floor.

Britain was suddenly crushed against France again, nearly smothering him, and their teeth gnashed together more than once. With a small, sly grin and dark, sparkling eyes, France slid one hand down Britain's chest, over his lower abdomen, between his hips…

Britain instantly grabbed France's wrist with one hand and pinned it beside his head.

"You're no fun." France complained. If Britain didn't let him play around at least a little, he might not get as much satisfaction out of this as he'd hoped.

Britain gave him another rum-soaked kiss, more likely than not to stop him from talking, and with his free hand fumbled at the buttons of France's undershirt. France guided his hand, and soon the undershirt was thrown to the floor as well. Britain shifted even closer to France, his expression much the same as the one on the face of a wolf once it pins down a deer. But France had no intention of becoming prey. He reached up with one hand and grabbed Britain's hat, lifting it off of Britain's head and placing it on his own, while his other hand slid under the waistband of Britain's trousers. Britain gave him a look of warning, but leaned into him so that most of his body weight rested on France's torso. He tipped the hat downward at a slight angle so that a shadow fell over France's left eye.

"You don't deserve to wear it, frog." Britain decided, "It looks much better on me. Give it here. _Now._" He made a grab for the hat, but France easily avoided him and tilted his head up to capture Britain's lips, kissing him angrily until both their heads swam and they panted for breath.

After that, Britain forgot about the hat. He waited, trembling, and caught his breath before leaning in again, this time to brush his hips against France's. He jumped slightly when France moaned in response, and France smiled to see the effect his unrestrained voice had on his enemy. After that, he made a point of moaning loudly at every movement Britain made, just to watch the island nation's cheeks flush darker as he grew more flustered.

"I thought I told you to shut up." Britain eventually hissed. France couldn't restrain a soft laugh, and he grabbed Britain by the hips to pull him in closer. Suddenly, his smile vanished and he froze.

"Hide." He whispered urgently. He quickly pulled the covers of the bed over them both, shoving Britain's head under and covering him with pillows. The disguise was far from flawless, but France trusted the darkness of the room to do most of the camouflage. Not a moment later, Spain burst in and France was instantly relieved that he had heard his footsteps in time to react.

"You okay, _Francia_?" Spain asked, his voice far too cheerful for how late at night it was, "It sounded like you were having a nightmare or something."

France tried to keep a straight face as he cast what he hoped was an inconspicuous glance at the mountain of bedclothes and pillows that concealed Britain.

"A nightmare, _oui_. That is _exactly _what it was." There wasn't a single trace of sarcasm in his voice. Underneath the covers, Britain frowned.

"Do you… normally wear hats to bed?"

"Uh, _non_." France responded, only then realizing that he was still wearing Britain's hat. If the silence that followed could have possibly been any more awkward, France did not know it.

"Okay." Spain replied uneasily, then yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Good night, then."

"_Bonne nuit_." France replied.

Britain heard the door close and struggled his way out from under the covers, quickly climbing on top of France again once he resurfaced.

"I think you just learned a very valuable lesson in keeping your damn mouth closed." He said with contempt, his vowels still running into each other with every other word. France grunted, pulling Britain close again and pushing his lips and tongue gently against his neck, licking the soft skin. Britain hissed in a sharp breath.

The rest of the two nations' clothes drifted to the floor and France ran his fingertips eagerly down Britain's spine, eliciting a sudden hitch in the younger man's breath. France laughed quietly, and a few moments later Britain heard him murmuring in French, either to himself or aloud he couldn't be sure. He tried to catch some of the words that were spilling fluidly from France's lips, but he had learned long ago that his understanding of the French language was reversely proportional to how many bottles of rum he had consumed. At this point, France may as well have been speaking gibberish. Now grinning through his words, France reached up to hook his arms around Britain's neck, letting his hands brush over the contours of his shoulders.

"I own you." Britain whispered, hoping this reminder would dim France's persistent grin. With one hand on the bed beside France's body, holding most of his weight, and the other grasping the headboard of the four-poster bed to stabilise himself, Britain looked away, closed his eyes, and in the bated breath of the darkness around him, fucked his very oldest and dearest enemy. He didn't dare make a sound, and even his climax was heralded only by a sharp gasp and a shudder that ran through every bone and muscle in his body.

France was louder. A deep moan escaped his mouth like liquid gold, and Britain revelled in the sound as he spiralled down headily from his high. He could feel the first syllable of France's name forming on his lips, but he wouldn't give France the satisfaction of hearing him so much as whisper his name, and held himself back.

It was only after he had collapsed on the bed and his heavy breathing had returned to normal that Britain dared to open his eyes again. He cast a glance over at France, and was surprised to find him gazing back with glittering aquamarine eyes.

"_Dieu, Anglettere…_" France murmured. Britain struggled to maintain eye contact. France's bright blue irises stood out stunningly from the shadow of the hat he still wore. How on Earth did France even _do_ that?

Britain spitefully snatched the hat from France's head and repositioned it on his own, hoping to minimize the infuriatingly hypnotizing effect of his enemy's gaze. He realized that he had never looked into France's eyes this deeply before. They were almost…

He cut his train of thought short, grinding his teeth to stop the word '_beautiful_' from even crossing his mind.

"I hate you." Britain growled.

"I hate you too." France replied casually, leaning back again with a look of victorious pleasure plastered across his face. "Are you leaving now, or in the morning?"

"Ass." Britain spat. He rubbed his head, feeling a slight throbbing pain edge its way against the hazy numbness in his brain. He stirred and rose from the bed, stumbling slightly with every other step as he retrieved his clothes from the floor. France sat up in his bed, watching Britain move around the room.

"What is your answer, Britain?" He asked, his tone mocking.

"_Now_. I'm leaving _now_, you insufferable idiot. I don't think I could stand another damn moment with you."

"Good." France replied, lying back down as he waited for Britain to leave.

As Britain was pulling his trousers back on, something slipped out of his pocket and clattered to the ground. France immediately sat up again, and when he caught a glimpse of what Britain had dropped he leapt onto the floor with the speed and grace of a panther and picked it up, examining it thoroughly. A slight frown appeared upon his face as he turned it over in his fingers.

"Is this my hand mirror?" France asked.

"Uh, no." Britain replied, leaning on the wall of the room to steady himself. "No, it's a completely different one. It's… mine. _My_ hand mirror!"

"It has my name engraved on the back of it." France said. For a long time, Britain was silent.

"I'll just be leaving now." He finally responded, tilting his chin up disdainfully and re-dressing himself as quickly as possible. France's piercing eyes followed him with every step until he finally shuffled to the tall windows, leaping with drunken grace onto the sill. A flick of the wrist and the glass panes swung outward, making France shiver as the cool night air slid into the room. Britain cast one more scathing look towards his enemy before lowering himself onto the rose trellis that climbed beside the window. The ridiculous feather of his hat had barely vanished from sight before a hissed oath, a crack, and a thud resounded through the clear night air. A grumble reached France's ears before shambling boot steps cracked twigs and uprooted flowers all across the yard. France rolled his eyes in annoyance before a devious grin flashed across his face. He climbed back into his bed, flipping the tiny silver mirror over and over in his hand. Britain, he knew, wouldn't let this go that easily. He could _never_ just let things go.

In the shadow of midnight, Britain left the house behind, glad he couldn't yet feel the pain from his fall and dreading the morning, when he knew he would. Though he had made his escape with no fewer than twenty-seven small, trifling items formerly belonging to France stuffed into the pockets of his coat, vest, and trousers, the mirror was not among them. That irked him beyond belief. He wasn't sure why, but now that France had taken it away from him, that hand mirror was the most important thing in the world. In his mind's eye, it mocked him with its gleaming, sparkling face. There was nothing else for Britain on this miserable stretch of land, but his ship would not be sailing until it was his. He _had_ to have it.

But what he needed to do just at the moment was get back to his galleon before he passed out.


End file.
